NO PLACE TO HIDE

The moment the first plane hit the World Trade Center, I knew.

Stunned eyewitnesses and newscasters wondered if there had been a terrible breakdown in air traffic control. But I knew without a doubt that radical Islam had come to the United States.

For the previous nine months, God had been impressing upon me that I should travel, share my testimony, and warn people that Islamic extremism was at our doorstep. I had spoken to large congregations and to small groups in living rooms. I have to admit that not many listeners took me seriously. Most thought it could never happen here.

Then came September 11. All the false security disappeared. Within hours, it became known that the hijackers were Middle Eastern Muslims. And here I was, an Arab living in the United States. If you think you were shocked and distraught that day, you should have been in my shoes.

What will happen to us? I worried. How will this affect my wife, our two children? What do our friends think about us now? They all know that I come from a Muslim background. In fact, the FBI probably has that figured out too.

For the next few days, I didn't want to talk to a lot of people. I was too angry and upset over how this would disrupt my life and the safety of my family. I secluded myself, just watching the nonstop news on TV. I couldn't figure out how to react, what to say.

Near the end of that week, I had to go on a speaking trip, leaving my family at home in northeast Missouri, where we served with Heartland Ministries, a Christian farm and school for troubled teens and adults with addiction issues. While I was away, sure enough — the FBI came knocking. Not finding me, the agent from nearby Kirksville interrogated Karen, my wife, and Farah, our twenty-four-year-old daughter. He spent a half hour asking who I was, what I did, what my connections were. Then came the bombshell:

"Mrs. Abu Saada, we've had a report that your husband is friends with Osama bin Laden ..."

Karen gasped, then laughed nervously. "Really?"

"Yes," the agent said soberly. "Is that true?"

Karen shook her head and began to explain: "More than thirty-five years ago, when Tass was a boy, his father did business with Muhammad bin Laden, Osama's father, back in Saudi Arabia. Tass's father had an auto body repair shop, and he used to fix the bin Laden cars. So yes, the boy came along to the shop one day, and they met. But that was all."

The agent kept taking notes, then replied, "Okay. I'm sorry, ma'am, but we have to follow up on every lead we receive. Here's my card; have your husband call me, please."

Fear and Trembling

We didn't know exactly which neighbor in the area had given the FBI this tip. But of course, I had told my life story to public audiences more than a few times. So I called the agent as requested. I said, "Hello, this is Tass Abu Saada; my wife said you wanted to hear from me."

"Thank you for following up," he said in a polite manner.

I figured I might as well confirm what he probably already knew. "Yes, it's true that I was born and raised in a Muslim family in the Middle East," I admitted. "Yes, I'm a former terrorist — I fought with al-Fatah, Yasser Arafat's militia, as a teenager. Yes, even before that, I met Osama bin Laden once in my father's garage when I was about nine years old. Odd little kid, I thought — he hardly said a word. But can I claim today that I 'know' him? That's he's my 'friend'? No way. It was a one-time encounter, and that's all."

I took a breath and then continued. "I came to this country in 1974, settled down, got a green card, got a job, got married, became a father. I'm as upset about what happened last week as any other American."

"That's okay," the agent said. "I've been checking you out, and everything matches up. Don't worry; when you get back in the area, give me a call, and maybe we'll get together for a cup of coffee."

Whew. That was nice to hear. But it didn't mean I could totally relax. I knew I was still being scrutinized by people on every side.

Three or four months later, I got an e-mail from an address I didn't recognize. The subject line in the header caught my attention immediately. It read, "The Time Has Come. It Is Ripe" — and then there was a little icon of a bomb!

Who sent this? And why did they send it to me?

I didn't dare open the actual e-mail. I picked up the phone and called my FBI contact. I read the subject line to him and then said, "Should I just delete this, or what?"

"Oh, no, no," he answered. "Let me look at it. I'll come over to see your computer for myself."

Soon he and another agent showed up. He sat down at my computer and began pecking away. "Something is going on here," he said mysteriously. Then finally, "I'm going to forward this to our lab for further analysis."

I never did hear what, if anything, they concluded. I was left, like all other Americans, to wonder ... and wait.

In the fifteen years since then, terrorism has exploded across our world. And not just across the Middle East. An informal tally on one month (January 2015) counted twenty-nine major incidents, from the Philippines to Libya to France to Nigeria. The next month (February), thirteen. The next month (March), twenty-two. The next month (April), twenty. The next month (May), thirty. And on it goes. In other words, one outbreak at least every other day.

Which attacks in this young century have been the deadliest? Look at this tale of blood:

There may have been a time when comfortable Westerners living in North America and Europe could pretend the world had two categories: "safe" places and "unsafe" places. Certain cities and countries were all right for vacationing, while others were not. That myth was forever shattered on 9/11, when terror came to New York's financial district and Washington's military headquarters. The only reasonable conclusion since then has been that the entire globe contains no place to hide. The question "Is it safe?" doesn't apply anymore.

Many Players

Keeping track of the many terrorist groups is not a simple task, especially with the constant mergers, split-offs, and name changes. The...